Arthur: I just have to know, are you with me on this?
Eames: Of course. To the end.
Ariadne: Eames. This will be the last time I call you.
Eames: Ariadne?
Ariadne: I… can’t. Do this anymore. I’m sorry.
Eames: Ariadne, what… what are you talking about? Darling girl, I—
Ariadne: You’re content to live a lie. I… I can’t. I can’t be with someone that lies. Is different people. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be in love with.
Eames: Ariadne. Tell me where you are. Tell me where you are and I’ll come to you right now. No more secrets, darling girl. No more lies. I promise. Please.
Ariadne: I’m home. If you know where that is. Goodbye, Mister Eames.
Ariadne: So what, you’ve got a real job now?
Eames: You could call it that.
Ariadne: Really.
Eames: If by “real job” you mean conning a dying old man out of his money the good ol’ fashioned way. Then yes. I do.
He doesn’t know her name.
But Eames knows that doesn’t matter, because they exchange glances. She wants him. He wants her. By some twist of fate, the two of them ended up in the same residence, through some mutual friends—
And when he learns her name, it rolls off his tongue as easily as smoke. He doesn’t find it difficult to groan or croon against her ear as they dance together, and she’s whispering his with the same fervor.
